


It is the thorn which taught me how to laugh

by howbadcanmyficsbe



Series: Javert is a literal wolf as Hugo intended [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hair Washing, Hair-pulling, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Post-Seine, Shaving, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22634146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe
Summary: It was a familiar routine, for Valjean to untie his hair, to run his hands throughout it idly, a habit carried over from the months before when wolfish fur covered Javert.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Series: Javert is a literal wolf as Hugo intended [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596145
Comments: 13
Kudos: 70





	It is the thorn which taught me how to laugh

**Author's Note:**

> I've been fiddling with this and another longer AU for the past couple months between schoolwork. It's time to release it into the wild. Thanks as always to @polygonndust on Twitter for your input and support for my stupid, stupid AU shenanigans. 
> 
> While familiarity with [I Too Have Been Covered With Thorns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21128699/chapters/50280983) isn't necessarily required to get this, I would recommend giving it a read if you haven't already!

_"Even when you tear its petals off one after another, the rose keeps laughing and doesn't bend in pain. 'Why should I be afflicted because of a thorn? It is the thorn which taught me how to laugh.'"_

_-Rumi_

* * *

Valjean’s fingers traveled lightly to the ribbon holding Javert’s queue; it was pulled back as usual into a perfect knot, meticulously kept. In a fumbled, lazy motion, he slowly untied it, eyes still focused on the book in his lap. Javert silently allowed the slight trespass, closing his eyes and focusing on the feeling of Valjean’s nails on his scalp and the tugging at his hair. It was a familiar routine, for Valjean to untie his hair, to run his hands throughout it idly, a habit carried over from the months before when wolfish fur covered Javert.

Since Javert’s return to human form, settling back into the body of a man was all but simple. Walking on two legs, eating with utensils, finding the dexterity of his fingers once again were obvious initial hurdles to overcome. What he found most difficult, however, were the things he so suddenly lacked. The limits of his hearing and sense of smell were jarring, and the rapid change in his vision often left him with dizzying headaches that clung to his temples like static.

Nighttime had become so quiet that he regularly woke, unnerved by the total silence around him, paranoid that a threat might escape his notice. The sensations had left, but the animal instinct remained. On those nights, Valjean would rise, pulling him back under the covers so that Javert’s ears might be deafened by the sound of Valjean’s heartbeat.

Undoubtedly, these frustrations paled in comparison to what he had gained. Javert, with bare skin, was now free to hold Valjean, to kiss him and do all manner of less appropriate things in the bed they shared. And how wondrous! To hold another being, to revel in the state of humanity and of companionship, to love and be loved so wholly. Javert could throw any hardship aside knowing Valjean was there, steadfast and content. His only wish was for Valjean’s happiness, to see him cared for.

And so, Javert noticed the slight change in Valjean’s touch, the cadence of his hand. Javert turned to him to search his face. He sat next to him on the settee, a recent addition to the cottage. As Valjean continued to stroke his hair, Javert placed a hand on Valjean’s thigh. Slight surprise on his expression, Valjean’s eyes left his book and found Javert. Wordlessly, he ran his hand through Javert’s hair and nuzzled his head into his neck.

“What is it, love?” Valjean asked.

Javert leaned into him, breathing out into his curls. When he failed to produce a response, Valjean retreated and looked up, searching his face.

“Javert?”

“You miss it,” Javert said.

Valjean furrowed his brow. “Miss what?”

“The wolfhound.”

“I-“ Valjean stumbled. His face was beginning to flush, his eyes wide. “I beg your pardon?”

“Valjean, I beg of you, do not lie out of kindness.”

Valjean opened his mouth and closed it, looking aside. “Please do not misunderstand, Javert.” He stroked at his hair absentmindedly. “I was content with you then, and I am overjoyed to have you this way, here with me.”

He sighed, looking back into Javert’s eyes. “Know that I love you,” he said, assurance in the hand that came to cradle Javert’s jaw.

“And I you,” Javert said.

“So please,” Valjean said. “Know that you are enough. More than enough.” He pressed a kiss to his lips and pulled away, waiting for a response. There was a long stretch of silence between them, a building tension.

“Is it the fur?” Javert blurted. His expression was resolute, but his cheeks were quickly growing red.

Valjean’s mouth set in a thin line as his blush spread hotly across his face and ears. What excuses Valjean may supply, Javert would certainly see through them. Javert sighed, pulling Valjean into an embrace.

The memory of that night was so clear in his mind: the first time Valjean brushed his pelt. Surely, hands that tender would rightly kill him, send him over another fatal precipice. He had no right to such things, to be given love so freely. And it was that love for him, the wolf, that grew.

Javert had no doubt that Valjean had come to love him as he was, but he recognized his hesitation, his skittishness. Valjean had only known this Javert as the inspector, the man who would forever haunt him. He fell in love instead with the wolfhound, and it remained that he was no longer the man Valjean had come to love, if only in appearance. Without warning, Javert had morphed back to what Valjean surely feared most.

And so, he understood his plight and harbored no judgment, no resentment. If anything, he only placed blame with himself, that his deficiencies might impair Valjean’s happiness. He knew firsthand of the nightmares that kept Valjean awake at ungodly hours; he never asked, but he knew he must occupy many of those frightful apparitions. All he could hope to do was to hide his face in Valjean’s neck as he coaxed him back into sleep, to stop his hands from trembling as they rubbed at his scarred back.

So Javert said nothing more, letting the matter lie for the time being as an idea brewed in his mind.

Every season, Valjean would take his leave for Paris. The journey took several days, and each time he would stay for two weeks time with Cosette. Javert alternated the times he joined him and stayed in the country, preferring not to leave his duties for too long. It took much effort to reintegrate himself into human society, something he never quite felt able to enter even as a man. When apart from Valjean, he now spent his days caring for the garden and providing assistance in the nearby town as a paralegal of sorts for the local lawyer and law enforcement.

Undoubtedly, he was hesitant at first to reenter such matters. However, he needed work to keep his mind moving, to keep his days occupied, to keep his soul from wilting. It was a difficult thing, to look at the law with both order and mercy, two sides of a coin he once thought an immovable, flat plane. Despite any frustrations, it satisfied him, helping a provincial farmer with a land dispute, providing aid for a bereaved family with too many mouths to feed.

So, when he departed for the city the following week, Valjean left Javert to his work, and Javert went forward with his plan.

* * *

It was always a refreshing joy to visit with Cosette, like clouds parting to reveal a sunny day. Her radiance stayed with him like a song repeating at the edges of his mind, even as he sat tiredly in the carriage. Two weeks in Paris was enough to sap most of his energy; it was times like these when he could feel his age wearing on his constitution. Though he did not mourn his youth, he wanted to savor any remaining vigor, to make the most of the time he had left before he met with the Lord.

As he looked toward the distant forest, he thought of Javert. Each time he went to Paris, he missed the man terribly, aching to fall into his embrace like a bird in its nest, safely guarded from the world. With a heat pooling in his stomach, he thought of the night, Javert’s mention of his fur. His mind took him back to so long ago, running a brush and his bare hands through it as he cleaned Javert, warm skin like a furnace underneath. It was something he missed, to be true, but he would gladly trade it for what Javert was now. Surely he understood, he wanted only peace for Javert.

Gingerly, he disembarked from the carriage, generously tipped the driver, and began his walk from the road to the cottage as the sun began to make its descent. What would he say to Javert? Do for him? For their methods of communication had always been so tactile, so rooted in touch that it was better to say nothing of the matter. To say “I love you” was a lingering grip, a kiss, a hand between his legs. A stroke through his hair.

Valjean realized he was standing at the door and shook these thoughts from his mind. He sighed and entered, searching the room for a now familiar figure with a weary smile as he closed the door behind him. Javert was crouched low, stoking the fire in his shirtsleeves. When he glanced sidelong at the noise, Valjean’s face fell.

Javert was, and always had been, totally immaculate in his appearance before Valjean. Excluding his time as a wolf, he could not recall a time that Javert had ever appeared out of sorts. Perhaps at the barricades while he sat bound in rope, but no other time. Without fail, his clothes were fastidiously pressed, his face bare, his locks tied tightly at the nape of his neck. It spoke to a man who took pride in his appearance as he took pride in the law once; it was required of him, and he would faultlessly carry it out.

As the fire grew, Valjean could see more of his face illuminated in an orange glow. Now, Javert’s hair was unbound, greased tangles falling around his face in chaos. Stubble ran over his features, and his whiskers were in desperate need of trimming. He looked closer to a wolf than Valjean had seen him since his transformation. Valjean’s tongue was stuck in his mouth, heavy and useless.

Javert stood and turned toward Valjean. He wore an odd look, a sheepishness most unlike him; Valjean could have laughed at the moment, to think of Javert with such a description. Javert could not look him quite fully in the eye.

“Welcome home,” Javert eventually said.

“Javert,” Valjean said.

“Yes?” His response was too quick. Embarrassed, Valjean realized with a start. Javert was red, blood rushing under his unkempt cheeks.

“Are you quite alright?”

A contorted expression crossed Javert’s face before settling again into shame. “I had a foolish, idea, quite a stupid notion. I thought perhaps you might prefer certain, well. Certain things about the wolf, and I thought to when you first washed its—that is—my fur. And I...” he trailed off as Valjean moved toward him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Locking eyes, Valjean leaned up to kiss him and pulled back with a soft smile.

Slow and calculated, Valjean stepped back and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. Looking up at Javert, he gestured to it.

“Sit,” he said.

Rigidly, Javert straightened and obeyed, striding nervously and sitting with hands on his knees, facing away from the table. He waited, staring down at his hands as he heard Valjean take his coat off, the familiar sound of his waistcoat buttons being undone. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw a basin, a towel, soap, a comb, a razor placed on the table. Valjean’s arms were uncovered, sleeves rolled. Javert knew his neck was likely bare, freed from his cravat, and the thought made him shudder.

Suddenly, Valjean’s hands found his shoulders. They were warm, solid against his frame, and Javert found himself relax incrementally under it. Fingers curved around the length of his hair, pulling it back from his shoulders with care. He reached for the comb, brought it to Javert’s temple, and began to run it through until it hit an inevitable knot. Pressing firmer fingers to his head, Valjean worked at the obstruction delicately, without excessive force, and soon came to the end of the strand. The sensation was never painful. Any sharpness was a gentle reminder of Javert’s humanity, his ability to bear hardship and be better for it. With pain came growth; struggle bore love.

It took an effort to disentangle the mess, but Valjean finally found the comb going smoothly through his hair. At this moment, Javert’s eyes were closed, his shoulders were slumped, and his breathing was slow and even. Valjean felt a warm satisfaction settle in his chest to see Javert so open under his touch. There was an impulse to let his hands go elsewhere, to forget himself and give into a more primal desire. He abated, instead preparing to wash it.

Valjean pulled the basin aside and guided Javert’s head gently back, letting his hair start to tip into the water. There was no flinch of surprise when it reached Javert’s skin. He lay utterly pliable, trusting of Valjean’s hand as he leaned back. Roses came to Javert’s mind as he smelled soap working into his hair; this was no different than Valjean’s roses in the garden just outside. Javert had seen the way he handled those bushes, weaving expertly without fear around their thorns and tenderly coaxing them to life. He had stared at Valjean so many times, longing to be under those dirt-covered hands, splayed on the flowerbed.

As Javert let these debased thoughts swim through his mind, Valjean began to sink his fingers into his scalp, massaging at the soap in tight circles. It pulled an involuntary sigh out of Javert, a low sound of release. Valjean smiled to himself, lingering at his temples to rub in soothing motions even after the hair was clean, free of soap and smooth with health. After wrenching several more noises from Javert, he lifted the hair and pulled it into a towel, nudging him so that he sat up again. His muscles were limp, at total ease, and Valjean commended himself to see him so unguarded, to turn the inflexible Inspector Javert to liquid. It was a rare moment even now, and he drank in the sight like a vintage wine, rich and intoxicating.

Patting down at the water clinging to his hair, Valjean brought the comb back through it again before walking in front of him. He pulled another chair aside, placed a towel in his lap, and lathered soap on Javert’s stubble as he sat facing him. Javert locked eyes first to Valjean’s, then to his neck, bare skin under his unbuttoned collar. Trying to keep still, Javert let the razor blade run over his skin, grazing the edges of his whiskers.If Valjean touching him out of sight was agonizing, the reality of his face a mere distance away was excruciating. The man’s lips were so close, and Javert was reminded that he had not seen Valjean in three weeks time. He ached to touch him, but kept his hands stationary, clinging onto any patience he retained.

Valjean’s expression was focused as he carefully shaved the last of Javert’s stubble, leaving his face smooth. He ran his thumb over his chin and cheek, as if evaluating his work with a lopsided smile. Without warning Valjean stood and moved behind him again, running his hands through his hair a final time before pulling it together. As he wound the queue carefully, he leaned closer against Javert’s back. Immediately, Javert felt his hardness on his spine through the spokes of the chair, inhaling sharply as Valjean finished tying it off and walked off to fetch a mirror.

Javert was stock still when Valjean held it up. Its reflection showed a well kept Javert; his hair was free of knots, pulled back neatly, his whiskers appropriately bushy, and his face clean-shaven. The only facet out of place was the redness covering him to the tips of his ears. Valjean lowered the mirror.

“Quite handsome, I would say.”

Javert swallowed. “You obviously think so,” he muttered. The bulge was unmistakable now in front of him, straining in Valjean’s trousers.

Valjean gave a somewhat abashed smile, setting the mirror on the table and taking Javert’s jaw in hand. He leaned down to kiss him softly but Javert, hungrier than ever, kissed him back like a man starved. It had been far too long, and Javert would wait no longer. One might think his patience would be more than practiced after so long barred from this pleasure as a wolf. Perhaps he was becoming all too sentimental, spoiled with the affection Valjean showered him in, spoiled with want to reciprocate it tenfold. It was a most unfortunate consequence he would need to live with, he supposed.

Letting out a sound of appreciation, Valjean maneuvered his leg around Javert and straddled his thigh, refusing to break the kiss all the while. Javert moaned into his mouth and set his hands on Valjean’s hips, kissing him even deeper. Immediately, Valjean’s hands went to his hair, first running through his queue and then seizing it as his breathing went more desperate. The force of the tug stunned Javert, and he made a noise partway between pleasure and shock.

“Valjean,” Javert gasped against his lips. The tone held an admonishment, but he made no effort to stop the way Valjean was ravishing his hair.

The sound was evidently no dissuasion as Valjean soldiered on, combing roughly with his fingers from Javert’s temples all the way to the tip of his locks, letting the ribbon fall untied in the process. Valjean bucked his hips against him, raking through his hair more urgently with each errant sound that spilled from Javert’s mouth. Along with the brushes against his hardening prick, each jerk of his hair left an oddly pleasant ghost of pain on his head, a thrill that sent goose flesh down his arms. Javert’s breath was ragged as he fumbled blindly to unbutton Valjean’s shirt, to search for skin to run his open mouth over. At the first sign of his collarbone, Javert descended into open, wet kisses that trailed around the base of his neck that grew into full licks, hot with staggering breaths.

It was at that moment that Valjean began rocking into him with such a force that the chair beneath them began to angrily creak in protest. Undeniably, Valjean had suffered just as much in those three weeks.

“Valjean,” Javert murmured into his neck. “We- we should to move a-“ A brush against his arousal and a tug at his hair coincided; he collapsed into a moan. “We _must_ move along… along to the bed.”

Javert was already well enough aware of what Valjean’s strength was capable of. Any beginning concerns he had for hurting Javert melted away with time as Valjean learned to love Javert with a certain level of force at Javert’s own insistence. Aside from the need for a larger bed with the two of them, Valjean’s previous bed frame barely survived the first weeks when their relationship blossomed into more rugged, hurried intimacy. And what a marvelous, saccharine flower it was, enough to drive a man to madness and wood to its breaking point.

The state of the chair seemed unconcerning to Valjean as he rucked, burying his head in Javert’s neck, feeling the bristle of his whiskers. After several breathless reminders from Javert, he reluctantly let go of his hair and left his lap. Javert was unsure what Valjean meant to do until his hands were grasping his rear and lifting him. His arms and legs went to wrap around Valjean as a guttural sound escaped him at the feeling of his cock flush against Valjean, frustratingly thick fabric between them.

Valjean gave a laughing moan and deposited him on the bed, stroking his hair the moment his hands were freed as he straddled Javert. He kissed him again deeply, bunching hair into his fists. Javert wasted no time in wrenching his shirt off and spreading his hands across his broad shoulders. Valjean gave a half-hearted attempt at Javert’s shirt before becoming lost in his chest hair, kissing at his breast. All but rolling his eyes, Javert pulled off the offending article. Taking a moment of breath, Valjean considered Javert’s shoulder and the scar blooming over the muscle and down his arm. A mark of their time together, a salient reminder of who this Javert had become. Kissing it gently in acknowledgement, Valjean plunged into his chest again, flicking his tongue around a nipple.

It satisfied Javert immensely to see Valjean so eager, so utterly taken by hunger, forfeiting composure each time Javert let out another whine, gripping his hair and pulling ever harder. To see a man always so gentle suddenly lose himself to tender desire; it was heavenly that God would deliver upon him such grace. It was in these moments that he was doubtless of Valjean’s love. If he was able to fall apart with such passion, he was truly unguarded, entirely trusting. He did not fear hurting Javert, and did not fear Javert hurting him.

Again Valjean’s face appeared and kissed him, moving his tongue from Javert’s mouth down his neck and kissing his throat emphatically.

“I missed you so,” Valjean said, voice low and rugged, into his collarbone.

“Too long I have waited for this,” Javert breathed. “I took myself in hand each day thinking of you.”

“Ja- Javer…” Valjean lost his speech in a broken sound as Javert cupped him, only fabric between their skin. He was thick with hardness, and Javert could now feel that he was leaking at the tip. Javert gave a breathless laugh, unbuttoning and removing his trousers with practiced hands. At the bare touch, his groans rose in pitch until Javert swallowed the cry with another kiss. The pull at his hair was tighter than ever; Valjean mumbled an apology, but what for? Each sensation, every desperate tug sent an ache between Javert’s legs, an ache he was desperate to free as he pulled down his own trousers.

Leaning close above Javert, Valjean breathed into the crook of his neck as Javert felt the wetness from his prick rubbing against his stomach. Wriggling his hand between them, he took Valjean in his hand and felt him exhale, deep and shuddering, into the hair on his neck. He flicked at the tip, coating the rest of his shaft with slickness.

Valjean was balanced precariously, leaning over him with a hand braced on the bed and the other in his hair. He removed the latter, reaching for Javert’s cock which Javert promptly swatted away, guiding it back to his head.

“Let me,” Javert muttered. As soon as his hand wrapped around them both, Valjean let out a gasp, tightening his fingers into a fistful of Javert’s hair. Their cocks were overwhelmingly hot against each other as Javert stroked and sighed into Valjean’s neck.

At the noise, Valjean’s hips thrusted against his arousal and his voice split in a moan. To Javert’s ears, the sound was more breathtaking than a symphony, more delicate than a songbird.He let his other arm travel hurriedly across Valjean’s broad back, tenderly brushing over scars and holding him closer still. The space between their chests felt all too close and tantalizingly far; the heat radiating from Valjean’s breast was like a stove, overflowing and spilling with stray embers. They threatened to catch onto Javert, to engulf him in flames. If Valjean wished to stoke it, to carefully bring it to fullness, he would gladly welcome it. He knew any fire would be but a gentle warmth, cradling him before it would ever burn.

The dull pain on his scalp was exquisite, melding with the base pleasure of Valjean’s stomach riding against him, how he throbbed under his stroking hand. Panting heavily, Valjean descended into wet, pleading kisses against Javert’s chin, his neck, his collar, losing any trace of decorum with each pump of Javert’s large hand. His breath was raw, ragged, whispering an approximation of Javert’s name in a rapturous tone, a prayer. Valjean clutched his hair like a rosary, sweet hymns under his breath. Javert responded in turn, quickening his pace and changing his angle ever so slightly.

“Jean,” Javert said, hardly recognizing his own voice. It was something animal, or perhaps something most assuredly human. “Let me… let me see you.”

As asked, Valjean propped himself higher, hand still buried in the tangles of Javert’s hair. Pink through his face to his chest, Valjean’s stuttering breaths fell in hot bursts on Javert. His expression was a burst of sunlight, a rose blossoming before his eyes, a look of such happiness Javert could never have hoped to see directed upon him.

In that moment he was lost, nothing but a rapturous warmth spreading through him and Valjean’s gasping lips against his own, spend mingling together on their stomachs. Everything was wet, sweltering, euphoric as Valjean collapsed beside Javert, cradling his face and languidly grappling with his hair. As both their breathing began to slow, Valjean pulled Javert close, running both hands through his hair and sighing contentedly.

Javert was ever tempted to stay like that for hours, embracing Valjean, uncaring of the mess between them. It was Valjean who broke the reverie, taking hold of Javert’s chin to look at him lovingly. A sudden trace of realization came across his face as Valjean’s eyes darted back and forth. Javert furrowed his brow as Valjean let out a laugh, uninhibited and genuine. He could feel its timbre in Valjean’s chest, and savored the rumble.

“Whatever is so amusing?” Javert said.

“Oh,” Valjean said, trying to control his laughter. “I’ve made just an absolute mess of your hair.” He demonstrated as much, his fingers caught in troublesome knots.

Even knowing the inevitable ugliness of his smile, Javert let it spread across his face, wide and full of teeth and gums. He shook in a soundless laugh, and Valjean laughed with him, covering his face in kisses. Javert kissed him then, putting all the love he could muster in the gesture.

“I suppose you shall have to fix it yet again,” he said.

At that, of all things, Valjean blushed and chuckled against his lips. “It would be my pleasure.”


End file.
